The counter is hard beneath me, the kitchen too small, but none of it matters.
Nothing matters except the way they’re touching me, claiming me, making me forget everything except this moment.
Elijah breaks the kiss, his blue eyes dark with hunger. “I want to taste you again.”
“Yes,” I breathe, and he drops to his knees between Marcus and me.
Adrian’s hands are everywhere, possessive and desperate, while Marcus’s mouth works my throat.
Elijah pushes the shirt higher, his breath warm against my inner thigh, and I’m about to beg him to touch me when?—
A sharp knock on the door freezes us all.
“Father Cross?”
Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, cold and authoritative.
We all go rigid, our breathing harsh in the sudden silence. Adrian’s hands are still under my shirt.
Marcus is pressed between my thighs.
Elijah is on his knees before me.
The knock comes again, more insistent. “Father Cross? I need to speak with you about the parish schedule.”
18
ADRIAN
Sister Margaret’s knock still echoes in my ears as I follow her down the hallway, my body still thrumming with interrupted need.
Behind me, in my quarters, Charlie is frantically redressing while Marcus and Elijah try to look like they weren’t seconds away from devouring her on my kitchen counter.
The flour-dusted mixing bowl sits abandoned, a monument to our recklessness.
“I apologize for the interruption, Father,” Sister Margaret says, her voice clipped and professional. She doesn’t look at me, just walks with that rigid posture that speaks of decades in traditional habit. “But this arrived by courier this morning. The diocese marked it urgent.”
She hands me a thick envelope, the formal seal of the Archdiocese embossed in red wax. My stomach drops before I even touch it. Nothing good ever comes in envelopes like this.
“Thank you, Sister.” I keep my voice steady despite the dread crawling up my spine. “I’ll review it immediately.”
She nods and disappears down the hallway, her sensible shoes clicking against the tile.
I stand there holding the envelope, feeling its weight like a stone in my hands.
Through the wall, I can hear movement in my quarters.
Charlie’s soft voice, Marcus’s low rumble, Elijah’s French-accented response.
The sounds of them trying to salvage what we almost did.
What we’ve been doing for weeks now.
I force myself to walk to my office instead of returning to them.
The envelope burns in my hands as I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment.
My body is still hard, still aching for Charlie’s touch, for the taste of her skin, for the sounds she makes when we claim her.
